J LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 5 

£ ? SE3*3 — f 

tyv tynW Jf« 



* UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. | 



Leaves 



PROM 



Hemlock Valley 



A COLLECTION 



POEMS AND STORIES. 






BY 

KATE MEKIDEJST. 



tLiyi,A 



NEW YORK : 

PUBLISHED BY JAMES MILLER, 

647 Broadway. 

1872. 



TS » » *jl 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by 

JAMES MILLER, 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



Joseph J. Little, 

Piinlcr, Stereotyper, and Electrotyper, 

108 to 114 Wooster St., N. Y. 



TO MY FATHER 

THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY 

INSCRIBED, 

AS AN OFFERING OF LOVE, 

FROM HIS DAUGHTER. 

Hemlock Valley, Nov. 3, 1871. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

Autumn 9 

Christmas 10 

Out in the Snow 12 

Do Poor Men ever Dream ? 14 

A Tribute 16 

The Old Year and the New 18 

Our Mother * 20 

The Tempest 22 

The Deserted Home 23 

The Sewing-Girl 25 

Home .- 27 

Beatrice 30 

A Thought 40 

A Lady 41 

The Last Dream 50 

Ma's Dearest Friends 54 

The Pride of the Family 57 

Alone 66 

One of Life's Pages 69 

Our Brethren 72 



8 CONTENTS. 

Page 

Holy Places 73 

What I Like 75 

To My Brother 77 

Never Despair 79 

Best 81 

To My Sister 83 

To May White Holmes 85 

Lines 86 

The Village . * . . 88 




LEAYES FROM HEMLOCK VALLEY. 



AUTUMN. 



"the grass withereth, and the flower fadeth." 

The trees have hung their banners 

Of purple and of gold; 
The Summer flowers faded; 

The year is growing old. 

Time, like a stream, is gliding 

So noiselessly away ; 
Buried beneath its current 

How many mortals lay ! 

The vines lie dried and withered ; 

The leaves begin to fall ; 

Thus, with unerring footstep, 

Shall Autumn come to all. 
1* 



CHRISTMAS. 



" ON THE STILL AIR THERE FLOATS A PEAL OP CHRISTMAS BELLS." 

Christmas has come ! The angels sing for joy. 
Lo, on the eastern horizon rises a star ! 
A glorious beacon, flooding the world 
With light. All nature wakes to greet the new- 
born King, 
While angels strike their harps anew, and sing, 
Glory to God on high, on earth good will to men. 

Glorious message ! Well may man rejoice ; 
With herald angels spread the joyful tidings 'round ; 
The mighty Counsellor, the Prince of Peace, 
Unfurls His banner — the banner of the cross — and bids 
The raging tumult cease. May man respond, 
And Rachel no longer mourn her buried dead. 



CHRISTMAS. 11 

Belona, bow thy head ; Messiah comes ! 
And when His sceptre sways the nations of the earth 
Thy reign is o'er ; man shall learn war no more. 
Bring the green myrtle now, the pine and laurel twine ; 
Wreathe yonr temples, and make them glorious 
Within. No earthly monarch comes; He shall 

be called 
The Lord our Eighteousness. Though earth be moved, 
And kingdoms melt away, fixed and immovable 
He sits, through endless day, while cherubim 
And seraphim proclaim His everlasting praise. 




OUT IN THE SNOW. 



" Out in the snow ! " a schoolboy cried, 
"Who'll be the first down this hill to ride? 
Hurrah for us all ! here we go, 
Gliding along on the smooth, white snow." 

" Out in the snow ! " sighed a fair girl ; 
A tear-drop froze on her auburn curl ; 
Her lips quivered ; she murmured low, 
" It's bitterly cold out in the snow ! " 

Out in the snow went ladies fair, 

Wrapt in such robes as the rich may wear; 

They called it pleasant — very fine — 

Said they liked the snow — the Winter time. 

" Ah, it snows ! " groaned a widow poor, 
As three hungry children left her door; 



OUT IN THE SNOW. 13 

" O God ! alas ! must my babes go, 
Hungry and cold, out in the snow ? " 

Life' s changing scene ! varied the style ; 
There's some born to weep, some born to smile ; 
Hearts that rejoice — that want ne'er know 
Pity the lone ones out in the snow ! 




DO POOR MEN EVER DREAM ? 



Oh, tell me, do poor men ever dream ? 

Does their fancy ever roam 
To that far-off land beyond the sea, 

Its towers and lofty domes, 
And people the earth with sunny forms, 

And beautiful temples rear ? 
Do their hearts beat quick, their blood flow warm, 

Because of the good that's here % 

Or say, do they smile a bitter smile, 

Made of scorn and mockery, 
And tell you they have no time to dream 

Of bright lands beyond the sea ? 
Crushing sweet flowers beneath their feet, 

Calling poetry a lie, 

While the stars .shine on, and angels weep, 

As they ask the reason why? 
1* 



DO POOR MEN EVER DREAM ? 15 

For there is a land that's fairer far 

Than the land the poets love, 
A Heaven of peace to call their own — 

That beautiful world above. 
And the good God has given to all 

A share of His own rich love, 
And though a poor man has little here, 

For him there is much above. 




A TRIBUTE 

TO THE LATE WILLIAM H. HERBERT. 



"man's inhumanity to man makes countless thousands 

MOURN." 

Thou art gone, Herbert ; no more may man approve 
Or disapprove thy doings. Scandal may wage 
Bitter war against thee ; thou shalt heed it not. 
Calm and still thou liest, where no strife of tongues 
May ever reach thee. 

I would weep for thee, weep bitter tears, if tears 
Would aught avail ; weep to think that on this earth 
Dwells a man that would blazon thy wanderings 
To a world's cold gaze, and, if 'twere possible, 
Would break thy heart, already broken. 

No prayer was uttered o'er thy resting-place ; 
The cold sod was heaped upon thy breast, perchance, 



TRIBUTE TO WILLIAM. K HERBERT If 

Without a tear ; but thou shalt rest as sweetly ; 
The winds shall chant thy requiem ; the sweet moon, 
With silvery light, shall shine upon thy grave. 
Farewell, Herbert, farewell ! May God have mercy 
Upon those who showed thee no mercy. 




THE OLD YEAR AND THE 

NEW. 



The old year's dying ! From the buried past 
Echoes the sad, sweet memories of yore. 

Time's going ! Listen while the wint'ry blast 
Wails of the hours that shall return no more. 

The noontide's paling! The Orient far, 

Star-gemmed with glory, told of time to come — 

Herald the clawn of Bethlehem's bright star — 
Messiah's reign — His work on earth begun. 



Oh, Prince of Peace! before Thee we are bending 
To ask Thy favor for the coming year; 

May Thy Good Spirit, all our ways attending, 
Grant us Thy peace, bid tumults disappear. 



THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. 



19 



Nations shall learn the joyful story, 

And waiting hearts no longer faint nor fear; 

Though time grows old, each sun shall set in glory : 
Prosperity attend each glad New Year ! 




OUR MOTHER. 



Mother, I am weary, weary, 

And my heart is sad to-day; 
Sad, dear mother, for I'm thinking, 

That from earth you've passed away. 
Cherished joys have now departed, 

Earth's bright hopes have faded too, 
And my soul now feels the anguish, 

That before it never knew. 

Home, our home. O God! the feeling, 

When the loved ones gather there, 
And we kneel to ask Thy blessing; 

Then we miss our mother's prayer. 
Gentle were thy words of kindness, 

Noiseless were thy works of love, 
Like sweet incense they were offered, 

With the spirit of the dove. 



OUR MOTHER. 21 

Ah, alas ! how much we miss thee ; 

All things now seem cold and chill ; 
Earth's a dreary blank without thee, 

And our hearts are aching still. 
Can we give thee up, sweet mother, 

And thy love no longer know 1 
Jesus, Saviour, see our sorrow, 

Help us now to bear our woe. 




THE TEMPEST. 



Hark! hark! the wind goes howling by, 

The stormy waters roar, 
The raging billows mount up high, 

And darkness gathers o'er. 

The lion rises from his lair, 
And howls in dread dismay ; 

Mountains and hills catch up the sound, 
While vivid lightnings play. 

It rushes on to forest wild, 

It rends the noble oak; 
The fir-tree lifts its towering head, 

Then bends beneath the stroke. 

The storm-king rules. — No mortal man 

May from his fury fly, 
For in an awful tone is heard 

Jehovah passing by. 



THE DESERTED HOME. 



Oh ! where are the prattling ones that played 

Beneath the old willow tree, 
The gentle mother that watched their sport 

And laughed at their childish glee ? 
Where is the father who fondly smiled 

On each dear and cherished one? 
The light grows gray on the cottage wall, 

But that father does not come. 



In a distant shade a new-made grave, 

Over which the lilies weep ; 
The father rests there. The children fair 

In another clime doth sleep. 
The mother that watched their infant sports, 

She, too, has passed away ; 
And where once so glad, 'tis lone and sad, 

And falling last to decay. 



24 



THE DESERTED HOME. 



While the night-wind, moans in hollow tone, 

Over that deserted home, 
It seems to say, in its solemn lay, 

Oh, why did the loved ones roam? 
The willow beside the cottage door 

Seems to catch the mournful song, 
And sigh, as it bends its branches low, 

Oh why They are gone, all gone ? 




THE SEWING-GIRL. 



Work oh, poor one, work on, toil away, 
Don't stop to think; thou hast no time to pray; 
How canst thou so presumptuous be? 
Thought is a luxury that's not for thee. 

Work on, work on, though thy eyes are dim 
With the tears that fall on your fingers thin ; 
Stop not to dream of thy mountain air, 
Of its valleys green, or its flowers fair. 

Work on, work on, though so worn and sore — 
When thy heart is broke thou canst work no more. 
Thy young life crushed like a withered thing, 
Then the cold grave to thee will comfort bring. 



Ah ! ye, who dwell in hotbeds of ease, 

Not dreaming of her who toils you to please, 



26 THE SEWING-GIRL. 

Do you ever think the rich robes you wear, 
Were made amidst scenes of bitter despair? 

When ye lie stretched -on your beds of down, 
"With nought disturb your slumbers profound, 
In a lone garret, wretched and cold, 
The sewing-girl toils for a mite of your gold. 

Chide not her tears that bitterly flow, 
Thou never hast known her want nor her woe. 
But when winter winds sweep by your own door, 
May God give you hearts to pity the poor. 




HOME. 

Home ! what a world of meaning in a single 
word, and, as we repeat it, how many thoughts 
come crowding thickly up for utterance. Thoughts 
of a mother's fervent kiss, of a father's fond em- 
brace, as he calls on Heaven to bless his returning 
ones. 

" I am going home," we hear a manly voice ex- 
claim. Can it be that that pleasant voice belongs 
to that grave business man, who, but an hour ago, 
looked as though he thought boxes and bales were 
the only earthly things worthy of attention? Yet 
it is the same, with this difference, he is the busi- 
ness man ho longer, something of his boyhood is 
returning. Ah ! God be thanked, that, amidst the 
fierce strivings of the world, that soul-destroying 
p-ame of dollars and cents, in which the greater 
part of mankind have ventured, there yet remains 



28 HOME. 

to us the word home. Hard indeed must the heart 
be that could withstand its spell. 

Are there any waters as bright as the clear sil- 
very streams that wind along the flower-decked 
knolls, where in childhood we have often strayed ? 

We may form new associations, and fancy we 
have almost forgotten the land of our birth, yet, 
at some quiet hour, as perchance we sit listening 
to the sighing of the winds, how does the memory 
of other days come stealing over the soul, and bring 
ns back to the scenes of our childhood. We press 
again the hands of loved ones gone, we listen to 
voices long hushed, we hear again the songs which 
a mother sang, and we roam the old familiar 
haunts. 

Then it is that a feeling of melancholy comes 
over us, which, like low, sweet melody, is pleasant, 
though mournful to the soul. 

The Swiss general, who leads his army into a 
foreign land, must not suffer the sweet airs of Swit- 
zerland to be sung in the hearing of his soldiers; 
for, at the thrilling sound, they would leave the 
camp, and fly to their own green hills. 



HOME. 29 

The traveller amidst burning sands, or traversing 
the land of eternal snow, though the hand of time 
may have whitened his locks, and ploughed deep 
furrows on his brow, and his heart have been 
chilled till the fountain of his love had almost 
ceased to flow ; jet, upon some quiet eve, as he 
watches the sun sink behind the western hills, he 
will think of home, and his heart will yearn for 
the love of other days, while he wipes away a tear. 

We may find skies as bright, and climes as beau- 
tiful, and friends as devoted, yet all that will not 
usurp the place of home. 

There is but one spot wnere none will sigh for 
an earthly home. The flowers that bloom in that 
land will never fade, the waters that wind along 
those verdant shores will never cease their crystal 
flow, and the friends and loved ones that meet 
there, will meet forever, for it will be our Heavenly 
enduring home. 



BEATRICE. 



I will tell this story as it was told to me, 
Though years have passed, and he who told the 

tale is gone 
To join the solemn throng of noiseless sleepers, who 
Inhabit that strange city of the silent dead. 
He said that he had travelled far, from east to west, 
In search of that vain thing which fools call happiness ; 
Beneath Italia's sky, tasted its fruit and wine, 
Till, weary of the luxury of that fair clime, 
He turned away to seek for change in ruder scenes. 

He journeyed far one day, into a forest wild, 
Where the tall cedar and the waving pine looked 

down 
Upon the tangled brushwood. There the rattlesnake 
Had made its nest, and the poisonous serpents drank 



BEATRICE. 31 

The moisture from the deadly nightshade, whose 

dark leaves 
Before had kissed the dewclrops from the damp cold 

earth. 

Within this distant wild, he thought himself alone ; 
Indeed, had quite made up his mind no human foot 
Beside his own had ever trod the place before. 
When, as the twilight flung its sombre shadows round, 
A sudden light, like some lone star, shone through 

the pines, 
And then a solemn voice chanted the vesper hymn. 

Directed by the sound, he said, he sought and found 
A strange abode, half sheltered beneath a rock ; 
A lonely man, with features sad, stood near the door, 
And in the gath'ring gloom chanted the solemn hymn. 
The old man paused as he approached ; and kindly bid 
Him welcome, " Stranger, though rude my grot, thou 

canst share 
The evening meal, and rest thy weary limbs awhile." 

Glad to obtain a resting-place, the traveller said 
He'd tarry for the night, and with the sun pursue 



32 BEATRICE. 

His journey ; " But why so sad, my friend ?" he asked, 
As they sat clown to partake of the humble fare. 

" Stranger, wouldst thou hear the tale, why I sought 

this spot, 
Far from the haunts of man \ Listen, the story's short. 
A traveller like thyself, I roamed in distant climes, 
To satisfy the longings of a restless soul, 
'For idleness ne'er brings pleasure.' While jour- 
neying 
I chanced to meet a matron grave, whose only child 
Was a daughter of rare loveliness, who helped her 
To eke out a scanty, but honest livelihood. 

" Upon those features, wonderfully fair, there dwelt 
A look of sadness, that ne'er failed to interest. 
She was called Beatrice. The name suited her well. 
No one could gaze upon her sad, sweet countenance 
Without wishing to know what grief saddened her 
soul. 

" To share her burden gladly I would have given 
All that I possessed ; for dearer than all the world 
beside 



BEATRICE. 33 

Was the fair Beatrice, whom I had learnt to love. 
Yet ah, alas! some secret spell kept us apart, 
For when hopeless, then most I felt she cared for me. 

" At length her mother died, and she was left alone ; 
Once more I urged her to share my fortune, and 

let 
Me make her happiness my chief concern, while she 
Forgot her sorrows. She cast a grieved look on 

me — 
'This ne'er can be, to-morrow I must leave this 

place,' she said, 
'And, though it break my heart, mast never see 

you more.' 
' Ah, why,' I cried, ' this cruel fate, this mystery ? 
Tell me the cause at least, and let me share your 

grief.' 

" 'A solemn vow now seals my lips, that naught 

but death 
Absolves me from. May Heaven have mercy on 

us both!' 
'Ah, then,' I said, wringing her hand, 'promise 

me this — 

2* 



Si BEATRICE. 

Should the time come when, sore distressed, you 

would need aid, 
You will come to me. Promise me this, Beatrice.' 
' I promise,' she said mournfully, and turned away. 
I rose the following morn with the break of day, 
And turned my steps to her abode, but all was still 
And desolate, as though the place had been a 

tomb. 
Ah ! then I felt alone, for Beatrice was gone. 

" And now among the busy haunts of men, I sought 
To drown my sorrow, and forget this hopeless 

love, 
But all in vain — in city, country, village, town, 
In journeying far across the shuddering sea, 
Her image fair, like a sad spectre, followed me. 



" Years glided on. During this time I vainly sought 
To discover her hiding-place, but it was vain. 
Then I chose solitude, and from the world did 

turn 
Away, to hide my sorrow, in this vast retreat. 



BEATRICE. 35 

" One summer eve, as I lay stretched upon my 

couch, 
Listening to the sad notes of a lone whip-poor-will, 
I fell asleep. When I awoke, a single star 
Shone through the lattice, yet while I gazed it 

vanished, 
And then I heard a voice distinctly call my 

name. 

" It was no fancy, of the fact I was assured ; 
Yet vain at first was the attempt I made, to 

solve 
The mystery. At last I thought of Beatrice. 
Ah ! then I knew it was her voice that called 

to me. 

" With naught to guide me, I went forth to search 

for her 
Once more. Sometime the thought would come 

to me, that she 
Was dead — yet sad and worn, I still pursued the 

search. 
One evening I had travelled far out of the town, 



36 BEATRICE. 

Into a wretched by- way, where the humble dwelt. 
Before a crazy tenement two women stood, 
And talked aloud. ' The doctor says that she will die,' 
Said one. ' Alas ! 'tis sad for her, in this strange 

place ; 
A lady born to better things.' The other said, 
'Aye, poverty, it is indeed a cruel thing.' 

" I brushed past the two women, and they stared 

at me, 
As though they thought me mad, and would have 

held me back. 
I sought the topmost floor — in an apartment 

bare 
Of furniture, except a chair and narrow bed, 
I found her whom I sought, my long-lost Beatrice. 

"But oh, so changed was she; yet still her won- 
drous eyes 

Retained their beauty, and her sad, sweet smile 
lingered 

Upon hur wasted features. She was lovely still, 

Like a crushed lily, fading at the dawn of day. 



BEATRICE. 37 

" ' Ah, I am blest ! ' she said ; ' I now can die in peace ; 
Heaven' has heard my prayer ; it was my last desire 
Once more to see yon, ere I cross the bound of time.' 
i Ah ! why then did yon leave me, Beatrice? ' I asked, 
Taking her wasted hand in mine ; ' why did you go % ' 

"'The time has come; I now am able to explain 
What seemed so strange, the mystery that vexed you 

sore. 
First, I must tell you that, to save my father's name, 
I promised to become the wife of one who was 
As merciless as death, and would have ruined him. 

" ' My father died ; he blessed me with his dying breath ; 
His honor was the sacred trust he left to me ; 
The one to whom I sold myself had gone abroad; 
On his return, he said, he'd claim his promised bride. 

" ' A year had passed away, yet he did not return ; 
My mother met you, and you proved yourself a friend, 
Whom we did learn to value every day and hour; 
And when my mother died, gladly she would have 
left 



38 BEATRICE. 

Her daughter in your care, but for the cruel vow 
That hound me to another, whom I ne'er could love. 

" ' Fearing to trust myself — for now I may confess 
How much I cared for you — I went away, and hid 
In this dark spot, where it pleased Providence that I 
Should hear that he to whom I'd bound myself 
was dead.' 

" c You must not leave me now; you are my own ! " 

I cried ; 
4 Oh, Heaven is merciful ; you yet will be my bride.' 
' Oh, hush, my dearest friend,' she murmured, 

solemnly, 
' I am Death's bride ; yet, 'tis not wrong to think 

of thee, 
And a short time enjoy thy dear society.' 

" Ah, she must live ! I could not think that one so fair 
Would die. Yet, ah, alas ! I did deceive myself. 
She faded, day by day, till, on a summer eve, 
She sank to rest, like a bright star in the blue sky. 

" Stranger, the story's told. I can but rest awhile 
In this lone spot, far from the bustle of the world, 



BEATRICE. 39 

Which heecleth not an old man's sorrow, and, 

perchance, 
Would call him mad. If thou shouldst ever travel near 
This forest wild, come, share again his homely fare." 




A THOUGHT. 



Walking in a garden, one morning in Autumn, I 
was much struck with its barren and desolate appear- 
ance. The wind whistled drearily through the leaf- 
less branches of the trees ; the vines lay dried and 
withered ; not a single flower remained. 

Saddened by the cheerlessness of the spot, I was 
turning away, when a sunbeam chanced to fall upon 
a withered leaf, and immediately a dewdrop glistened, 
like some rare and precious jewel, with a thousand 
colors. 

Like the dewdrop, I thought, is a beautiful mind. 
The body may decay, and time bring wrinkles that 
shall mar the loveliness of the fairest forms, but the 
thoughts of the immortal mind shall never perish, but 
shall grow on and on even into eternity. 



A LADY. 



BY KATE MERIDEN. 



What is a lady ? Who will tell ? 
A woman true, or flashy belle, 
A bunch of silk, gewgaws, and lace, 
Whose only gift's a doll-like face ? 

" Don't loll on your chair, ^Nellie. Sit up straight. 
Shall I ever teach you to behave like a lady ? " 

To teach her daughter to behave like a lady seemed 
to be the chief aim of Mrs. Bently's existence. Early 
and late she labored to bring about this desired object. 
How far she succeeded we shall be able to judge by- 
and-by. 

The Bentlys' circumstances were what would be 
termed easy. Their residence was elegant in all its 
appointments, and, so far as the details of housekeeping 
were concerned, no one surpassed Mrs. Bently ; and 
she congratulated herself that the method of training 
her children was equally faultless. 



42 A LADY. 

For her elder daughter the best masters were em- 
ployed, and already, both in music and drawing, the 
young lady considered herself a proficient, and was 
longing for the period when, to use her mother's ex- 
pression, " she should be introduced." 

"How would you look, child," continued Mrs. 
Bently, " lolling in that fashion in your uncle's draw- 
ing-room ? If I could only make a lady of you ! " 

" Why, of course, ma, you don't expect me to loll 
in Uncle Edward's drawing-room. I'm at home now," 
returned the naturally indolent Nellie. " Do you 
know Lizzie Mitchel's at uncle's this winter ?" 

" I heard something about her going to school. 
Hellen must be crazy to surround her with luxuries 
that she cannot long expect to enjoy," returned Mrs. 
Bently. 

Hellen Mitchel was Mrs. Bently's youngest sister, 
yet, though the youngest in the family, she had drank 
more deeply of the cup of affliction than any of her 
sisters. 

Her husband, when in command of the doomed 
steamer " Muriel," had found a watery grave, and his 
affairs were found so complicated that it' was an easy 



A LADY. 43 

matter for designing ones to rob the poor widow of 
her all. 

Yet Iiellen Mitchel was a woman of superior mind ; 
and while she felt how deeply she had been afflicted, 
she knew that, with the blessing of Heaven, on her 
own exertions alone must she now look for the means 
of obtaining a livelihood for her children. It was 
true that among her near relatives there were many 
who possessed a large share of the world's goods, who 
came forward to oiler her a home, yet, for the sake of 
her children, she declined these offers. 

Several evenings previous to the period when we 
first introduced Mrs. Bently to the reader's notice, 
Mrs. Mitchel was also conversing with her daughter. 

" You are going, Lizzie, into an entirely different 
scene to what you have been accustomed since your 
poor father's death. I know you will be surrounded 
with temptations that are peculiarly attractive to a 
young person like yourself; yet, I am convinced I 
should be doing wrong to reject your uncle's offer, 
and thereby deprive you of the advantages of a good 
education, which may hereafter be your only means 
of dependence." 



44 A LADY. 

" Do not fear, mother ! 1 shall try to remember 
what you would wish," said the young girl, earnestly. 

" I have every confidence in you, Lizzie ; you will 
improve your time, you will act your part well." 

" I will be a woman ! that is your favorite charge. 
I will remember it, mother, and be a woman ! " 

" God bless and help you, dear child ; you will need 
all your decision of character," said Mrs. Mitchel, 
kissing the earnest face turned to her own. 

Very different were the preparations made by the 
two sisters for the departure of their daughters. 

Mrs. Mitchel's meagre purse would admit of no 
display, and while yet the wealthy Mrs. Bently was 
consulting a host of milliners, dressmakers, etc., Lizzie 
Mitchel, arrayed in a plain brown merino, with a black 
leather trunk that contained her neat though unpre- 
tending apparel, was travelling toward her uncle's 
elegant mansion. 

In process of time Mrs. Bently's arrangements 
were completed, and with several well-filled trunks, 
and many parting injunctions to behave like a lady, 
Helen Bently left for her uncle's residence. 

Let us look in upon the cousins three weeks 



A LADY. 45 

after they were established in Mr. Maudant's city 
mansion. 

Our readers may follow us to a spacious chamber 
on the right wing of the house, where, around the 
couch of a child who is evidently an invalid, are 
gathered three young ladies, two of whom we may 
recognize as Lizzie Mitchel and Nellie Bently ; the 
other is Mr. Maudant's only daughter, who with her 
cousins, have come to pay a visit to her little brother. 

" Come, Lizzie, you will not go back to your books 
to-night, surely," said Emma Maudant, laying her 
hand on her cousin's arm. " Be sociable for once, and 
come in the parlor. Let's see, Nell, whom do we 
expect to call ? " turning to her other cousin. 

" Colonel Barister certainly, Doctor Win ton, and 
the young theologian who asked after Miss Bently 
the last time he called." 

"Lizzie can't leave Willie," said the sick child, 
holding out his hand imploringly ; " Lizzie won't go 
away ! " 

" No, Willie, no ; I will bring my books, and after 
I get through with my translations I will tell you about 
David keeping his father's sheep." 



46 A LADY. 

" Dear, good cousin Lizzie," murmured the child. 

"Never mind, Em.," said Helen Bently, as Lizzie 
left the room. "If she won't come, let her stay. 
Perhaps it's just as well ; you know she can't expect 
to enjoy company, etc., very long." 

This remark, though not intended to be heard, 
reached her cousin's ears, and for a moment a pain- 
ful expression rested on Lizzie's fair features. It 
soon disappeared, however, and in its stead came a 
look full of confidence and hope, as she slowly mur- 
mured, " I will be a woman ! God helping me, I will 
not disappoint dear mamma. No one so well as myself 
knows that I have no time for enjoyment," and with 
a resolute step Lizzie returned with her books to the 
sick-chamber. Sounds of music and mirth from the 
parlors below often fell on the student's ears, yet it 
only seemed to increase the earnestness with which 
she applied herself, and two hours elapsed ere she laid 
aside the neatly written translation, and looked up 
in the little white face which was watching her so 
anxiously. 

" Got done, Lizzie % " said the child ; " now I shall 
hear about David, who took care of his father's sheep. 



A LADY. 47 

But hark ! " he continued, raising his little, thin hand, 
" isn't that Mr. Prentice, the young minister, that I 
hear talking down-stairs \ lie is the only one that 
ever comes from the parlor to see Willie." 

" I don't think he'll come to-night, Willie, it's get- 
ting late." 

" Well, never mind, Lizzie, go on with the story.'' 

The simple story of the youthful David was begun, 
and while the child lay with his great blue eyes ear- 
nestly fixed on the speaker, a figure glided noiselessly 
into the apartment, and only when Willie had kissed 
his cousin " good -night," and turned to compose him- 
self for sleep, did he notice Mr. Prentice standing at 
the foot of his couch. 

" I've just come to say < good-night ' to you, Willie," 
said the gentleman, as the child endeavored to raise 
himself from his pillow. "Miss Lizzie will scold if I 
keep you longer awake." 

" Lizzie never scolds, sir." 

" No," returned Mr. Prentice, smiling, " Excuse 
me for mentioning such a thing ; " and for some time 
after he conversed pleasantly, until Willie's measured 
breathing assured them that he was fast asleep. 



48 A LADY. 

In that evening Lizzie secured a kind, judicious, 
and faithful friend ; and, several years after, when 
standing by little Willie's grave, with humble gratitude 
her thoughts reverted to the hour when she first met 
Carlton Prentice, in the sick child's chamber. 

We pass over a period of several years, and when 
we again enter Mrs. Bently's sitting-room, we find 
that the only occupant of the apartment besides herself 
is a lady, her only unmarried sister, who now resides 
in the house. 

" You do not seem at all hopeful, Caroline, concern- 
ing Jennie's marriage," said the lady, looking at her 
sister. " Surely it met with your approval." 

" I have no fault to find with her choice, certainly," 
returned Mrs. Bently ; " but the truth is, Mary, I 
have been disappointed in one of my daughters, and 
I hardly dare hope for anything better for her sister. 
I am sure no woman has done more for her children 
than myself; I spared neither time nor money to make 
a lady of Xellie, and expected she would be everything 
I could wish ; yet there seems to be no comfort in her 
home ; her housekeeping is left entirely to hired ser- 
vants, for she is never satisfied unless when abroad, 



A LADY. 49 

and it is a fact, visible to all, that her husband is i 
most unhappy man. Now there is Helen, who has 
had neither the time nor means to lavish upon hei 
daughter. She has more than realized her fondesl 
hope. Lizzie is now the Principal of the Greenvilh 
Seminary, and is well able to provide all the luxuriei 
as well as comforts of life for the family. In the Fal 
she is to marry Carlton Prentice, who is now one oi 
the most distinguished clergymen in the city ; — whei 
a younger sister is appointed to till her place in the 
Seminary. Surely Helen has been blessed in hei 
children. Why am I less fortunate ?" 

Mrs. Bently asked the question, but alas ! like 
hundreds before her, she failed to discover the true 
cause of her disappointment ; for while Helen Mitchel 
had labored to instill noble principles, and make a good 
and true woman of her daughter, her chief aim had 
been to adorn the person of her child ; the putting 
on of gold and costly apparel ; or, to use her own 
words, to make her a lady. 



THE LAST DREAM: 



Low loomed tlie sun upon the west, 
Flooding with gold the tented plain, 
Till vale and hilltop seemed to gleam 
With amber from the other world. 
Before his tent a soldier stood, 
Gazing upon the gorgeous scene, 
With parted lips and speaking eye. 

His was a proud, a manly form, 
Though hardly grown to man's estate. 
Ambitious dreams fired his soul : 
And though his heart beat high and warm 
With love for home, and dear ones there, 
Sylla and Marius never dreamed 
Prouder, loftier dream, than he. 

Sunset waned; no longer gleamed 
The turrets of the far-off town ; 



THE LAST DREAM. 5j 

The last faint blush of purple clouds 
Faded quite away, still he stood, 
While fancy wove a brilliant page, 
Marked o'er with deeds of high renown, 
And he the hero of them all. 

The shadows lengthened, and the wind 

With fitful moan swept through the pines ; 

The wood-dove's notes, like mournful dirge, 

Floated upon the still, night air; 

Yet, all unmindful of the home, 

He watched the stars, and dreamed that he 

Should shine, a planet in his sphere. 

At length, weary of his vigil, 
He lay him down to rest a while, 
And as he sleeps, he dreams of home. 
Once more his mother's hand is laid 
Upon his brow. Soft music falls 
Upon his ear. His dream of pride 
Is all forgot. He slumbers well. 

But hark ! the clarion's wild notes ! 
What means that dreadful revelry % 



52 THE LAST DREAM. 

That piercing cry, to arms! to arms! 
Earth to her centre quakes and groans, 
"War-clouds fill the arch of heaven, 
With lurid light ! The clash of steel, 
The tramp of hurried feet roll on. 

Where is the dreamer ? Where ! O where ! 

Upon a snow-white steed he sits — 

No knighted warrior at race 

Or tournament e'er bore prouder, 

Loftier mien, than he. His soul 

Is fired. Bright visions of glory 

Float before him now. On he goes. 

He rushes madly on. The boom 
Of cannon, war's wild din, inspires 
His soul. Wildly he urges on 
His foaming charger, amid the 
Bristling legions. Many strong men 
Fall before him, the victory 
Is won. But oh, alas ! alas ! 

While yet the shout of triumph falls 
Upon his ear — why pales his cheek ? 



THE LAST DREAM. 53 

Why fades the flush from off his brow ? 
Why bends the form that ne'er had bent 
To mortal man % He lays him down, 
The conqueror with the conquered. 
Sigh on, ye wild winds, wail 

A dirge upon the air ; 
Where is the conqueror ? 

The wild winds answer, where? 




MA'S DEAREST FRIENDS, 



Letty. My mother sends her compliments 
To you, dear Mrs. Brune, 
And hopes to have your company 
On Monday afternoon. 

Not a large party, ny no means ; 

Only ma's dearest friends; 
Now, do not disappoint us all, 

For on you ma depends. 



To speak the truth, clear Mrs. Brune, 

There's Miss Clotilda Breff, 
That ma's invited, but, alas ! 



That lady's very deaf. 



MA'S DEAREST FRIENDS 5 5 

And though ma would not speak a word 

Against a chosen friend, 
She says 'tis perfect misery 

The time with her to spend. 

The Jinkinses are coming, too; 

Nice girls enough, he sure ; 
But oh, dear me ! they have such airs, 

Though miserably poor. 

You'll come ? that's right ; you always were 

Ma's very dearest friend. 
Good afternoon, dear Mrs. Brune; 

A happy time we'll spend. 



Mother. Well, Letty, have you come at last ? 
Have you been to Mrs. Brune's ? 
I hope that something will occur 
On Monday afternoon. 

Dear me ! if it would only rain, 
That would be quite the thing ; 



56 MA'S DEAREST FRIENDS. 

Between you, Letty, and myself, 
I'll dread to hear her ring. 

The Jinkinses will feel quite hurt 
To meet plain Mrs. Brune : 

Oh, dear me ! what a time I'll have 
On Monday afternoon ! 




THE PRIDE OF THE FAMILY; 
OR, A MOTHER'S LOYE. 



BY KATE MERIDEN. 



Home, our Home ! God ! the feeling, 

When the loved ones gather there, 
And we kneel to ask Thy blessing, 

Then we miss our mother's prayer. 
Can we give thee up, sweet mother, 

And thy love no longer know 1 
Jesus, Saviour, see our sorrow, 

Help us now to bear our woe. 

Our mother was a remarkable woman ; those who 
knew her best will bear witness to that fact. When 
we say remarkable, we not only mean a very good 
woman, but one whose energy and perseverance had 
few equals ; yet, dear, blessed mother ! she had one 
weakness — it was our brother Willie. And truly 
was our brother one of whom any mother might have 
been proud. From a child he had been remarkable 

3* 



58 THE PRIDE OF THE FAMILY. 

for his manly bearing, good manners, and polite atten- 
tion to those older than himself. It was a common 
remark among our visitors that Willie W. was a per- 
fect little gentleman ; and when he grew to boyhood, 
the promise of his earlier years was more than fulfilled. 
I remember once to have heard our father speak of his 
first introducing him in a large institution where he 
was anxious to secure for him the benefit of a liberal 
education. 

On arriving at the place, he said, he was surprised 
to find the institute had received its complement of 
students, and was turning away much disappointed, 
when Dr. W., the principal, made his appearance, and, 
pointing to our brother, asked, " Is that the boy you 
wish to enter ? " 

Our father answered, and the good doctor, continu- 
ing to survey Willie critically, exclaimed, " Fine boy 
that ! splendid head ! " and entered him without 
another word. 

Our brother's school experience was among our 
mother's sunniest days. Always at the head of his 
class, and ready to join in all healthful sports, he soon 
became a universal favorite. It was Will W. who 



THE PRIDE OF THE FAMILY. 59 

was chosen president of the club and debating society ; 
Will who was called on to open the exercises at com- 
mencement, and read the valedictory to the critical 
audience ; in short, our brother was the pride of his 
teachers as well as his parents and sisters. But, 
alas ! school-days do not always last, and at the expi- 
ration of Willie's a serious question arose : what 
should he become ? 

Our father had originally intended him for the 
church, and his education had been directed with a 
view to that object ; yet, though Willie sincerely 
respected the office, he chose another. He would 
become a merchant. An active business life was his 
delight, and his parents would not force him to an 
unwilling service. 

Willie went to the city, and in one of the leading 
mercantile houses secured a reputation for business, 
which he most richly deserved ; for he had used, in 
his business relations, the same untiring energy and 
perseverance which had characterized him as a stu- 
dent. 

For a time our country home was gladdened by his 
weekly visits, and our precious mother learned to 



60 THE PRIDE OF THE FAMILY. 

watch for his footsteps, and listen for the voice of her 
boy ; but a cloud was lowering, and soon was she to 
taste the first drops in her cup of sorrow. 

Willie had been with the firm of' L. & W. but a 
short time when a complication of circumstances ren- 
dered it necessary that some one possessing unusual 
address, tact, and business talent should visit the 
South. At first it was determined that Mr. L., one 
of the prominent partners, should make the journey ; 
but shortly after this arrangement, an occurrence took 
place which rendered it impracticable, and the ques- 
tion arose, whom should they send ? 

In the employment of the firm were several young 
men, all of whom had been in the business a longer 
time than our brother, and much interest was mani- 
fested among them as to the possibility of one of their 
number being sent. Great was the wonder then, 
which was shared by our brother, when he received a 
summons to meet the firm in their private office ; and, 
after a long conference, it was proposed to him to 
make the journey. 

Willie came home, and though anxious to obtain 
our father's opinion, he could not disguise the fact 



THE PRIDE OF THE FAMILY. 61 

that he was exceedingly anxious to make a visit to the 
South. 

And now did our angel-mother sit, with a smile 
upon her lips, and tears dimming her eyes. She was 
proud of her boy, of the confidence reposed in him ; 
and well she knew that new scenes and associations 
would be of service to him ; yet, oh, when she thought 
of the long, weary months which must necessarily 
elapse before she could hope to welcome him to his 
home, none, save those who have felt the depth and 
intensity of a mother's love, may know the feeling 
with which she saw him depart. 

Our brother's journey to the South, in a business 
point of view, proved highly advantageous, and on 
his return he was received by the firm with the warm- 
est commendations. Yet, ah, alas ! the excitement of 
business, the smiles and favors of his employers, was 
fist weaning him away from his boyhood's home. 

Shortly after Willie's return, it was whispered that 
he had formed an engagement with Miss L., the ac- 
complished sister of the senior partner, who was nearly 

connected with the Honorable , of S , and 

many began to talk of the honor and distinction about 



62 THE PRIDE OF THE FAMILY. 

to be conferred on the family by this union — so little 
does the world know and appreciate the feelings of 
private individuals, or regard the sundering of its most 
sacred ties. 

The night that our brother's letter, conveying the 
intelligence of his attachment to Miss L., reached us, 
how many tears were shed, how many sleepless hours 
passed in our quiet country home; for, though we 
knew the one he had chosen to be lovely and lovable, 
we also knew that Willie, our Willie, could be ours 
no longer. 

Our mother said but little. Her son's happiness 
was dearer to her than her own, and none knew the 
struggle with which she resigned it to the keeping of 
another. 

And now, how can we speak of that separation 
which was shortly after effected by our brother's new 
relations, for an agreement had been made that he 
should have an interest in the business, and hencefor- 
ward attend to the department in the South. 

Ah, as we sit writing, the memory of that day 
comes crowding thickly up for utterance. Once more 
the circle is unbroken in our home, and we see our 



THE PRIDE OF THE FAMILY. 63 

precious mother, her arms tightly folded around our 
brother, and he promising her soon, so soon, to return. 
For a while after his departure, a letter from Willie 
was among the great events of our lives ; and though 
calm and collected at all other times, on such an occa- 
sion our mother was quite overcome, and seldom ate 
anything the remainder of the day. 

At length a year rolled away, and that dreadful 
harbinger of desolation, the cry of war, resounded 
through the length and breadth of our devoted land, 
and none knew the deep anguish it brought to our 
mother's heart, or her oft-repeated prayer for her son's 
return. 

Time sped on ; brother stood arrayed against brother ; 
children of the same parents, who had learned to lisp 
the first " Our Father " at the same mother's knee, 
were now banded to take away each other's lives, 
spurred on by the strange infatuation, the blind pre- 
sumption of Southern demagogues, who, for their own 
emolument, were willing to trample on all law, and 
overthrow one of the best governments ever be- 
queathed to a people. 

All communication with the South was now at an 



64 THE PRIDE OF THE FAMILY. 

end, and we watched and waited in vain for just one 
word from our brother. 

Our precious mother uttered no word of complaint, 
yet, alas ! the hope deferred was telling fearfully upon 
her. She seemed ever to be dreaming of her heart's 
idol — ever ready to take up the wail of Israel's stricken 
king, " Would to God that I had died for thee, my 
son ! oh, my son, my son, my son ! " 

And now we come to a period which, through all 
the eventful scenes of life, can never be obliterated 
from our memory. Often, in the still watches of the 
night, when the wind, with fitful moan, is wailing 
around our home, we would fain fancy it a strange 
delusion, the creation of our excited imagination. 
But it may not be : the dread reality is too true. Our 
mother's chair is vacant ; her smile no longer welcomes 
us : she no longer watches and waits for our brother's 
return, for the flowers that our hands have planted 
blossom above her grave, and our love, our prayers, 
and tears are all unheeded ; for she has gone where 
" there shall be no more sorrow nor sighing, and He 
shall wipe away all tears from all eyes. There shall 
be no night there." 



THE PRIDE OF THE FAMILY. 65 

Another year has passed away, and our brother 
still wanders in a strange land. Perchance even now 
the spirit of our angel-mother is watching o'er her 
child ; or, if he has joined her in the spirit-world, he 
may then know the depth of that devotion which 
was stronger than life itself. 

" Lord ! I long to be at home, 
Where these changes never come ; 
Where the saints no winter fear, 
Where 'tis spring throughout the year." 




ALONE. 



[Written on hearing a sermon from the words, " The heart knoweth 
its own bitterness, and a stranger intermeddleth not."] 

Hark to the night-wind, 
Hear each dying moan, 
Mournfully sighing, 
Alone, all alone. 
And as its echo 

My wakeful soul fills, 
Each throbbing heartstring 
With agony thrills. 
For not from without comes that desolate moan, 
It is my soul sighing, alone ! all alone ! 

I sigh to be free; 

For some distant spot, 
Where earth's dark shadows 

May all be forgot. 



ALONE. 67 

Some one to pity, 

Some friend ever near, 
Whose skill could protect, 
Through a world so drear. 
But ah! as I listen, there comes that sad moan, 
My wakeful soul sighing, alone ! all alone ! 

And is there no one 

To comfort and cheer — 
For rest must we pine, 
For sympathy here — 
No one that can smooth 

This dark vale we roam, 
No one that can guide 
The wanderer home \ 
And on through the world, with our sorrows unknown, 
Must turn sadly away, alone! all alone! 

Oh, when storms arise 
The dark clouds appear, 

The dear ones we love 
]STo longer are near; 



68 ALONE. 

The billows roll on, 

Unheeding thy moan, 
The soul crietli out, 
Alone ! all alone ! 
Oh cease, troubled soul, oh cease thy sad moan, 
Thou art not forsaken, thou art not alone ! 

Thou art not alone, 

For thou hast a friend, 
Whose love can protect, 

And save to the end. 
No longer despair, 

Thou need'st not to roam 
A wanderer here, 

For thou hast a home — 
A heaven of peace, where no sorrows are known, 
There, weary one, rest, for there none are alone. 




ONE OF LIFE'S PAGES, 



"Put down that work, for the fire is dim; 
You are looking so tired, worn, and thin— 
Don't kill yourself for your mother's sake, 
Don't do it, daughter, or my heart will break. 
The work you say's for a lady fair, 
A beautiful dress for a bride to wear, 
But though the lady's so line and gay, 
Will she not wait, child, for a single day?" 

"Oh mother, you say the lire is dim, 

When I've done my work 'twill be bright again. 

Don't look at me now, oh, don't look so, 

I will not kill myself, oh no, oh no. 

We've had nothing to eat all the day, 

I'm hungry enough— when I get my pay 

We will have a warm fire, by and by, 

And something to eat, mother, you and I." 



70 ONE OF LIFE 8 PAGES. 

The poor girl's work was finished at last, 
She went to the hall, three long hours passed, 
Then a vain serving-girl came to say 
Her mistress was busy, and could not pay. 
The foolish creature began to chat, 
Of beautiful dress, magnificent hat — 
The poor girl sighed as she turned away, 
And bitterly said, "I'm hungry to-day." 

She hurried home to her mother's door, 

And, grasping the latch, sank down on the floor. 

The poor mother shrieked with anguish wild, 

And folded her arms 'round her dying child. 

" Oh God ! " she cried, " must I see this day, 

My darling is gone, and I cannot stay; 

Oli Father, in mercy take me too, — 

We'll need nothing to eat, child, I nor you." 

Thus on through life the heartless and gay 
Are trifling the golden hours away; 
In some wretched place, some desolate spot, 
A weary one toils, unblest and forgot. 



ONE OF LIFE'S PAGES. 



71 



There's a day coming, forever shall cease 
The wail of the weary — they shall have peace. 
Where shall the hard-hearted sinner appear? 
Can we buy Heaven with mockery here? 




OUR BRETHREN. 



"the poor ye have always with you." 
When I look out of my window, 

I see such a world of light — 
A short way down in an alley, 

The shadows fall black as night. 
There the people look like spectres, 

Gaunt spectres, thin, and so tall; 
And yet Pm sure it is written, 

That these are our brethren all. 




HOLY PLACES. 



Oh Olivet, thou sacred spot, 

Thy breath comes o'er me like a spell ; 
In thy green bowers, at eventide, 

The dear Kedeemer loved to dwell. 

Bright Kedron, near thy silvery stream, 
In sad but sweet Gethsemane, 

I wander often in a dream, 
And think I there the Saviour see. 

On solemn Tabor's awful mount, 

On cloud-enveloped Calvary, 
Who can the wondrous scene recount ? 

Nature convulsed in agony. 

Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! 

For thee our tears shall ever fall; 



74 HOLY PLACES. 

Where now thy goodly palaces? 

Thy towering pride, thy lofty wall? 

Does Shiloh's light no longer shine 
On Sharon's fair and fertile plain? 

Forsaken ones, disowned of Heaven, 
Is blooming Carmel but a name? 



WHAT I LIKE. 



I like a cheerful smile, 
A bright and sunny face, 

And though I little care for show, 
I like a pleasant place. 

I like a low, sweet song, 

Sung as in olden time; 
It brings back to my memory 

The days of old "Lang-syne." 



I like a pleasant talk 

With some familiar friend ; 

1 count it not a waste of time, 
An hour thus to spend. 



76 



WHAT I LIKE. 



I like a fearless heart, 

The noble and the true, 
One who would scorn to act a part, 

And I, my friend, like you. 




TO MY BROTHER. 



Bkothek, the months, the days, the hours, 

Have glided noiselessly away, 

Yet still I sit, while memory chimes 

The melody of other days. 

Once more the silent halls are tilled 

With echoes of the voices loved 

In long ago, when hand clasped hand, 

And each heart breathed a prayer for thee, 

For thee, brother, the absent one. 

Ah me ! How things have changed since then ! 

The wreath is broken. One by one, 

The dear soul-blossoms dropped away, 

Till, weary of the damp chill air 

Of earth, the fairest departed, 

And we were left to weep alone. 



78 TO MY BROTHER. 

Come back, brother, once more to know 

That thon art near. Long I've waited. 

When at night, yonder silver sheen 

I've watched, there comes strange mnrmurings 

Over its waters pale and cold, 

And e'en the breezes sigh, come bach. 




NEVER DESPAIR. 



Never despair, though the day may be clouded. 

Sunshine and shadow, midnight and morn, 
Let not thy heart with sadness be shrouded, 

TJp and be doing, steer through the storm. 



Life is a battle, battle it bravely, 
For to sit idle man was not born ; 

Heed not commotion,— fools, let them prattle-- 
Duty thy watchword, onward, right on ! 



Much ot our time has fleeted by idly, 
Unmarked, unimproved, wasted in play 

We are forgetting the soul immortal! 
While life, like a dream, passeth away. 



80 NEVER DESPAIR. 

Up and be doing, let us be earnest, 
In every good work we have to do, 

We shall find flowers fragrant and lovely, 
Great souls and noble, hearts tried and true. 




REST. 



"Best!" cried a poor old man with silvery hair, 
As to Heaven he lifted his dim eyes — 

Fain would he leave a world so full of care: 
Tired and worn, for rest he vainly sighs. 

" Eest ! " cried a soldier. " Where shall I find rest V 9 
A thousand lifeless forms before him lay — 

"This ceaseless carnage; ah, this constant death! 
Is this my glory, this, to kill and slay?" 

"Kest!" cried a student, and he vainly sighed, 
Then scanned the page, its reason clear and cold : 

Ah, philosophic Greece, with learning rare, 
Never gave rest unto a weary soul. 

" Kest ! " cried a traveller. " When shall I find rest ? " 
And he pursued his weary way alone. 



82 REST. 

"Oh, for some gentle heart to love me best, 
To rest from toil, and find a quiet home." 

Methought an angel heard the vast complaint, 
And to the land of light the echo bore; 

An answering seraph then aloud proclaimed, 
" Mortals, in Heaven there's rest, there toil is o'er." 




TO MY SISTER. 



Maky, I miss thee now, I miss thy voice,— 

There's none that can thy place to me supply ; 
When musing o'er some page, some poem choice, 

My thoughts, dear sister, then will to thee fly. 
When all is still, the world is wrapt in dreams, 

And "nocte" o'er the earth her shadows fling, 
I wish, dear sister, you were by my side, 

To read once more the Idyls of the King. 

>Tis many a month since I have seen thy face, 
And yet I would not make thee sad, ah no; 
Let's think that earth is not our dwelling-place, 
In Heaven there's no parting, there's no woe. 
And yet we'll hope on earth to meet again- 
Some things have changed, yet, sister, we may see 
Our hearts' own home, for it is just the same 
As when we stood beneath the maple-tree. 



84 



TO MY SISTER 



The waters murmur, and the breezes sweep 

Through the dim forest, making low, sad moan : 
The stars, like angels' eyes, their vigils keep 

O'er each loved spot where we were wont to roam. 
Good-night, dear one, for I can write no more ; 

'Tis too late now to get another light, 
Or I would trace these pages o'er and o'er ; 

Good-night, dear Mary, once again, good-night. 




TO MAY WHITE HOLMES, 



Little May, with eyes of blue, 

Ringlets of a golden hue, 

Fairy child, oh could thy feet 

Ever tread a pathway sweet! 

But for thee, dear little one, 

There is cloud as well as sun. 

Yet above life's cloud and storm 

There's an everlasting morn, 

Where the sun shall ever shine — 

Darling child, may it be thine. 

When earth's clouds have passed away, 

May you dwell with angels, May. 



LINES 

WRITTEN FOR MY FATHER, ON THE DEATH OF 
HIS FRIEND, MR. JOHN ARMONT, AN OLD GEN- 
TLEMAN WHO WAS REMARKABLY PLEASING 
AND GENTLE. 



Farewell, my good old friend, 

Our journeyings are o'er, 
The pleasant hours we've spent 

We'll spend on earth no more. 
I miss thy cheerful face, 

I miss thy honest smile — 
Few hearts like thine are left, 

Few hearts so free from guile. 
The little children smiled 

To see thee pass along, 
And many young hearts weep 

For the old man that's gone. 



LINES. 87 

Farewell, my good old friend, 

Our journeyings are o'er; 
May we meet in that land 

Where friends shall part no more. 




THE VILLAGE. 



There was an unusual stir in the village. The 
grocer stood with his arms akimbo, looking across the 
way, at the quiet brown structure known as the 
parsonage. The loungers at the post-office had for- 
gotten their favorite topics to discuss the minister, 
and what at that time proved to be a subject of 
greater interest, namely, the minister's choice. 

The ladies of the village considered the event of 
sufficient importance to call for a convocation of 
their fair selves, and, precisely at two, might have 
been seen, with sundry little parcels of biscuits, cake, 
etc., wending their way to the Widow Green's, where, 
over a " cup of tea," they discussed the merits of the 
case. 

" A minister's wife," said Mrs. Colonel Stubbins, 
who, in consideration of being the mistress of the 



THE VILLAGE. 89 

finest mansion in the place, was allowed to speak 
first, " should be a pattern of godliness." 

"Exactly, my dear Mrs. Colonel," chimed in the 
doctor's wife, " ready to join in every good work." 

"Hospitable, and always ready to receive her 
husband's parishioners," vouchsafed another dame, 
"like our good Mrs. Garvin, if yow remember, my 
dear," nodding in the direction of the doctor's wife, 
" her seed-cake and pickled salmon were really de- 
licious." 

The aforesaid Mrs. Garvin had once dwelt at the 
parsonage, but finding it impossible to attend to the 
wants of her family, officiate at all the sewing-circles, 
benevolent societies, school feasts, etc., and at the 
same time be at home to half the parish, and pre- 
serve her good looks and cheerful words for the one 
dearest above all others, she one day rushed into the 
minister's study, and, throwing her arms around his 
neck, sobbed out that she feared she had not been a 
good wife, and had kept him back in his work. 

The minister was but human, and though he had 
thrown his whole soul in his labor, on that occasion 
he not even stopped to think that the sermon which 



90 THE VILLAGE. 

lie was preparing with such elaborate care, to touch 
the hearts and please the intellectual senses of his 
hearers, might suffer from the interruption. 

Folding his wife in his arms, he endeavored to 
soothe her, calling her his poor, tired darling, his good 
angel; yet, though it was a great comfort to have 
her husband near her, yet all his care and attention 
could not bring back her exhausted strength ; and on 
the following Sabbath, when his congregation were 
wondering what had become of their minister, Charles 
Garvin sat beside the death-bed of his wife, bowed in 
an agony of woe. 

Eeader, this is not a fancy sketch ; for not thirty 
miles from this great city, where the shepherds of the 
flock dwell, even in marble halls, and dispense the 
Word to their fashionable hearers, for salaries vary- 
ing from fifteen to twenty-five thousand dollars, there 
are true followers of the Great Teacher, who sacrifice 
not only themselves, but their loved ones, for a bare 
pittance. Their wives die young, their children are 
left orphans, and, under these depressing circum- 
stances, is it a w r onder that they rarely reach the intel- 



THE VILLAGE. 91 

lectual heights of their more highly favored breth- 
ren ? . Yet let these earnest followers of the lowly 
ISTazarene take comfort in the thought that, at the last 
great reckoning, things shall be more evenly adjusted 
by the. great Judge of all ; and while it may be possi- 
ble for those who consider a fat living a call from 
God, to be rejected by Him, they shall at last be 
received as good and faithful servants into the joy of 
their Lord. 

After Mrs. Garvin had been laid beneath the sod, 
her husband's parishioners discovered that she was 
really an excellent woman, and forthwith began to extol 
her many virtues. * 

This late acknowledgment of his wife's worth did 
little toward soothing the sorrows of their minister, 
who, feeling that his usefulness was over, asked for a 
discharge. 

The coming of the new minister had occasioned 
considerable bustle in the village, and when it was c 
discovered that he came alone, and had neither wife, 
mother, or sister to share the parsonage, the female 
portion of the community, with but one or two excep- 



92 THE VILLAGE. 

tions, immediately took him in their care and keeping, 
and forthwith commenced a series of raids upon him- 
self and his houshold. 

Mrs. Merton, the grocers wife, made a weekly visit 
to his kitchen and larder, Mrs. Colonel Stnbbins took 
a general survey of the premises, from attic to cellar, 
while the Doctor's wife, having undertaken the charge 
of his health and spirits, saw fit to inflict any number 
of unseasonable calls, and last, but by no means least, 
in the catalogue of his trials, was the attentions which 
a certain Miss Jenkins paid to his buttons and but- 
tonholes. 

For a time, however, the good man bore all these 
inconveniences with commendable patience ; encour- 
aging himself with the thought that the one whom he 
had chosen to share his fortune would be able to do 
much toward relieving him from these troublesome 
attentions, and to this end he sat about preparing for 
his bride, and, the arrangements being completed, he 
bade his officious friends farewell, promising soon to 
return with his wife. 

" May the good Lord bless the poor lady," said the 
superannuated wife of the old sexton. "It's tu be hoped, 



THE VILLAGE. 93 

sir, she'll not be worried to death, like our poor dead 
Mrs. Garvin." 

" You will have to help me to guard against such 
a deplorable event, Aunt Essy," said the young 
clergyman, shaking her hand. 

" It's little that the loiks of an old 'oraan loik meseP 
can do, sir, but I'd recommend ye tu Miss Laura yon- 
der. Bless her heart, though she has a deal of trouble 
herseP, she's jest the salt of the 'arth, an' I say it as 
knows — Worth a dozen of your Deborah Jenkinses, 
an' all thar skirmishins 'round 'mong yer buttons, 
sir." 

Perhaps the minister was of the same opinion, but 
he only smiled, as he turned away. 

The gray shadows of evening had already flung 
themselves over the village, ere the ladies retired 
from the Widow Green's tea-table, and prepared to 
depart. 

As a finale to the all-important subject, Miss 
Deborah ventured to hope "that the mistress of 
the parsonage would be made of real flesh and 
blood, and not a child-woman, to be made a doll 
of by her husband, like some ministers' wives she 



94 THE VILLAGE. 

knew of," and Miss Deborah Jenkins drew herself up 
to the full extent of her five feet ten inches. 

So much interest had this last remark elicited that 
the ladies failed to observe the approach of a close- 
covered carriage, which wended its way to the parson- 
age : and thus it was that the minister and his wife 
was allowed to enjoy the first evening of their arrival 
" at home," undisturbed by visitors. 

" What a beautiful spot of peaceful quiet, Walter," 
said the minister's wife, as she stood gazing from the 
study-window, which overlooked the village, from the 
eminence on which the parsonage was situated. 

" A beautiful spot, Nellie ; but for the peaceful 
quiet, my darling, I cannot give the encouragement I 
would wish. I confess I have not had sufficient cour- 
age to introduce the subject before, but my little wife 
must expect to find that the spirit of mischief, of 
gossip, and disorder dwells even in this fair village. 
I grieve to say that all your gentleness and good-will 
will not be sufficient to shield you from the prejudice 
of the narrow-minded and meddlesome, and had I not 
have known the strength and value of my wife's 
affection, I should have hesitated before I asked you 



THE VILLAGE. 95 

to be the sharer of my sorrows as well as joys. But 
let it encourage you, dearest, to know that even in 
this place, you will find those who can appreciate 
you ; and I do not despair, with the blessing of 
Heaven, of yet driving the spirit of mischief from 
this fair spot." 

" Visitors in the parlor, mem," said a light-haired 
Irish damsel, thrusting her flaxen head in at the door; 
"Missus Colonel Stubbins and Miss Deborah Jen- 
kins," inclining the flaxen curls in the direction of 
the minister. 

"Yes, Biddy. Your mistress will be down 
presently," and Walter Winton glanced encourage- 
ingly at his wife, who prepared to descend to the 
parlor. 

Mrs. Colonel Stubbins happened to be in one of 
her amiable moods ; it yet being an early hour in the 
day and no untoward circumstance having transpired 
in either the kitchen or nursery to mar her serenity. 
She extended her hand with the greatest cordiality, 
and ventured to hope that both the place and the 
people would prove agreeable to their minister's wife; 
adding, in a patronizing tone, that as she had seen 



96 THE VILLAGE. 

much of the world, her experience might be of 
service, and if, my dear, you should need my advice, 
in any perplexity concerning either the parish or 
your domestic arrangements, do not hesitate to call 
me to aid you. 

During these remarks Miss Deborah Jenkins had 
improved her opportunity to scrutinize the mistress 
of the parsonage, and had quite made up her mind as 
to the cost of her attire, from the tiny gaiter in 
which her foot was encased to the linen collar that 
encircled her throat; and was busy contrasting the 
girlish iigure and sweet face with what she was 
pleased to term her own dignified proportions. 

When Mrs. Colonel Stubbins ceased speaking, she 
advanced two steps, and extending the tips of two of 
her icy fingers, "hoped that Mrs. Winton was not 
greatly fatigued by her journey," and forthwith 
launched out in a dissertation concerning her own 
power of endurance, which she seemed to reckon 
among the cardinal virtues. 

All things must have an end, and finally Miss 
Deborah ceased speaking, and the ladies remembered 
that they had to be at home before luncheon, and 



THE VILLAGE. 97 

took their leave. Yet other visitors soon arrived, and 
the shades of evening gathered over the parsonage 
before they found themselves alone. 

" And now, dearest," said the minister, as they sat 
down to their late tea, "yon have had a fair glimpse 
of the people of my parish. Which of the ladies 
interested you most?" 

" Really, Walter, they are so different that they all 
interest me, though in a different way. Mrs. Colonel 
Stubbins seems a kind sort of person, though rather 
officious and meddlesome. Yet I think her more 
agreeable than Miss Deborah, who, to tell the truth, 
I am half afraid of. She is so good, so excellent, 
that she really makes me feel quite insignificant every 
time she mentions my name." 

" You will excuse her, my dear, when I tell you 
that she considers that she had a prior claim to this 
dwelling. The gossips say she had quite made up 
her mind to become the second Mrs. Garvin, and will 
never forgive my poor friend for leaving the place. 
What do you think of Mrs. Ashton and her 
daughter ?" 

" They are really interesting, — so gentle and unas- 



98 THE VILLAGE. 

suming ; a settled sadness seems to possess them 
both." 

" They have seen a great deal of trouble. To 
please her uncle, in whose care she had been placed 
at the death of her parents, she married a naval 
officer, who was supposed to possess a large fortune ; 
whether this supposition was correct I am not able to 
decide. Captain Ashton led a reckless, extravagant 
life on land as well as sea, and the visits which he 
paid his family were generally productive of as much 
sorrow as joy ; for though Mary Ashton was devoted 
to her husband's interests, and proved herself a most 
exemplary wife, she felt that his influence and ex- 
ample were hurtful to their children, particularly to 
their son, a gay, spirited youth, who was fast acquiring 
his father's habits. 

" As you remarked, my dear, Mrs. Ashton is par- 
ticularly gentle and affable, and during the Captain's 
lifetime, was never heard to utter a word of com- 
plaint. At his death, which was hastened by his own 
recklessness, she would have been quite destitute if it 
had not been for a moderate sum that her uncle had. 
settled upon herself. And now, Nellie," the minister 



THE VILLAGE. 99 

continued, " I come to the saddest part of the story. 
Mrs. Ashton had hoped that now that she was left 
alone with her children, her son would see the neces- 
sity of breaking away from his wild companions, and 
endeavor to assist her, but, alas ! poor lady, her cup of 
affliction was not yet full. 

" One day young Ashton had gone with a party of 
young men to the forest. Before joining in the sport 
he told his companions he would go to old Barton's, 
the locksmith's, for a favorite rifle, and started off in 
that direction. 

" Shortly after, as two men were passing by the 
locksmith's dwelling they were startled by a loud 
report, and after proceeding a few yards, made up 
their minds to return. When they entered the dwell- 
ing a terrible spectacle met their eyes. Old Barton 
lay lifeless upon the floor, with a ghastly wound in 
his temple, from which the blood was flowing, while 
young Ashton stood bending over the old man, hold- 
ing in his hand the rifle, which had his name graven 
upon it. 

" I need not linger over this terrible affair. It was 
believed by the greater part of the community that 



100 THE VILLAGE. 

he had taken the old man's life, though there were a 
few that believed him innocent, though they admitted 
the circumstances were against him. Yet even their 
faith in his innocency was somewhat shaken when it 
was discovered that he had escaped from the hand of 
justice. Still, his poor mother, Charles Garvin, and 
some that knew him best, maintain that there was 
not anything vicious or brutal about him, although he 
was reckless and of a roving disposition, that had 
often been the source of much trouble. I sincerely- 
trust he may yet be proved innocent of this great 
crime." 

ki The son of such a mother could not commit so 
foul an act," Mrs. Winton returned, as they arose 
from the tea-table. 

The next morning, the mistress of the parsonage 
commenced her new duties, and, before three months 
had elapsed, had quite surprised the ladies of the 
parish, for, while she was courteous and kind to all, 
she contrived to manage her own affairs, much to 
the annoyance of the officious and meddlesome. 

One evening, as they were returning from a visit 
which they had been making to Aunt Essy's cottage, 



THE VILLAGE. 101 

they were met at the parsonage gate by a stranger, 
who requested the minister to accompany him to a 
neighboring village, to see a man who was dying, 
and had something of importance to communicate to 
the clergyman. 

Bidding his wife farewell, the minister started off on 
his journey. The next day, while awaiting his return, 
Mrs. Winton was surprised by a visit from another 
stranger, who brought a letter from her husband, who 
said he would return on the morrow, and in the mean- 
time asked her to provide for the w T ants of the stranger. 
Although much surprised, Mrs. Winton hastened to 
bestow the hospitality of the parsonage on her visitor, 
and while busy with his entertainment, failed to 
observe a pair of curious eyes, that eagerly watched 
every movement. 

Three hours later Mrs. Barlow, the Doctor's wife, 
and Miss Deborah sat closeted together, discussing a 
subject that seemed particularly interesting to them 
both, judging from their excited manner. 

" I really feel disgraced myself," said Miss Jenkins, 
drawing herself up until she looked more like a 
grenadier than ever. 



102 THE VILLAGE. 

" A very proper feeling, my dear. They must have 
quarrelled, and, during his absence, she entertains her 
friends. Really, things have come to a pretty pass ; I 
think it is high time for the vestry to take matters in 
hand ; I shall say as much to the Doctor." 

The following morning the minister returned, and 
had just sat down to chat with his wife, when Doctor 
Barlow was announced. 

" I am sorry to make such an unseasonable call," 
the Doctor began, fidgeting on his chair, " but the fact 
is — " Here the Doctor came to a sudden pause, which 
greatly surprised his companions. 

"You are quite welcome, Doctor," the minister 
said, endeavoring to reassure him. " Is there anything 
I can do for you 1 " 

" Well, the fact is," continued the Doctor, " some 
talk has got around concerning your wife having 
visitors during your absence. Indeed, your journey 
was attributed to a quarrel, and some thought best to 
call a meeting of the vestry, but, as I know the place, 
I would not consent, but thought it best to speak to 
you on the subject." 

" My wife certainly had a visitor, who still remains 



THE VILLAGE. 103 

our guest. I am happy to say Mrs. Winton and myself 
have always been the best of friends. Really, Doctor," 
the minister continued in a graver tone, " it is with the 
view of showing you how far the spirit of misrepre- 
sentation and mischief will distort matters, that I con- 
sent to give an explanation of my absence. The 
evening on which I took the journey, I had been with 
Mrs. Winton to pay a visit .to Aunt Essy. On our 
return we were met by a stranger, who brought me a 
letter from a dying man, who begged me to come to 
him immediately. Without going over the harrowing 
scene, I need only add that the wretched man proved 
to be the murderer of poor old Barton. He said he 
had had a furious quarrel with the locksmith, and shot 
him in a rage, and then escaped through an open 
window. This avowal he made in the presence of a 
magistrate, and then begged me to search out young 
Ashton, whom he had so cruelly wronged. I suc- 
ceeded in finding the poor young fellow, and judging 
it best not to surprise his family too hastily, sent him 
to my wife to be cared for, until I was able to return. 
Now, Doctor, you have heard the story. If a suffer- 
ing family are relieved from their burden, and a son 



104 



THE VILLAGE. 



restored, I shall not even regret the injustice which 
has been done to one of the best of women, my 
wife." 

The Doctor went home to scold his wife for her 
gossiping propensities. 




